


To walk through snow

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Abuse, Angst, F/M, LLF Comment Project, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: General Armstrong imprisoned by drachman forces is a scenario no one in Amestris wanted to think about. Not even when it happend.





	To walk through snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkuisitivSkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkuisitivSkins/gifts).



> Oh @Inkuisitivskins, your prompts are really something else. So ambitious^^ But you let me write for my OTP, so :)  
> I really hope you like it!  
> Contains: swearing, mention of torture, abuse  
> Dialogue in italics means the words are spoken in Drachman.

The man walked fast, forcing Mustang into a jog to catch up.

“Buccaneer! Buccaneer! Wait up!”

Buccaneer did not stop, but slowed his pace a little, an angry gaze locking onto his face. He ground out only one word, seething with anger.

“What?!”

He hurried to answer, because hell, you did not let the man who wounded Bradley and _lived,_ wait. Not when he looked so pissed.

“Try for a second appeal! Have them think it through a second time! Isn’t there a way to get more detailed information from the spies?”

The information the man had presented had been throughout, been elaborated on in great detail, but his appeal had fallen onto deaf ears nevertheless. And to think that it had taken more than a handful of people to even make one, to keep him from waltzing into Drachma by himself, with as many weapons stripped to his body as possible.

It had meant a month more in captivity for her, the man’s voice dripping of this knowledge when speaking again.

“What good will it do, Mustang? Keep her out of the way longer for you?”

He fought his own anger down, knew that Buccaneer was simply emotional at the moment. At a loss for what to do. That their promised day plot had worked well for him, but hurt the reputation of the Briggs men incredibly.

“It’s a chance! Without funding and a team, you won’t get her out of there anytime soon! You cannot take on Drachma on your own, Buccaneer!”

The man next to him quickened his pace again, grumbling angrily. Roy kept up, suddenly noticing that Hawkeye caught up with him on Buccaneers other side. Speaking, fearlessly.

“Mr. Buccaneer, I understand you must be upset now, but Armstrong Senior just asked me to inform you that he wants a meeting.”

And this, curiously, stopped the man in his tracks. Roy could not claim to know everything that went down, but was at least aware that Armstrong’s parents weren’t happy with her choice of partner. Not even accepting, barring him from visiting the family together with her, which amounted to her never visiting at all anymore, according to her brother. Which was a shame, Roy thought to himself, as the family had been on the way to making up finally, after their eldest daughter leaving with just sixteen.

Couldn’t keep himself from thinking about the days he spent there as a kid, with nostalgia tinting everything rose-coloured.

“Where is he?”

He looked at Hawkeye, towered over Hawkeye, really, but didn’t seem threatening at all. Spoke gruffly, but a hint of surprise he couldn’t hide.

“There’s a car waiting in front of Central Command for you. He said you’ll recognise it when you see it.”

For a second the man stood still, before abruptly turning around, headed for Central Command. But not before turning towards Hawkeye, bowing his head a little, voice more than just honest.

“Thank you.”

* * *

He’d last seen his daughter shortly before she stepped onto the train to North City, remembered every feature of her face, contorted with anger at the time. Had been so nervous when heading into his own home, the hour more than just late, after what he knew to be called the promised day had went down just a mere two weeks ago. Was ready to proudly praise his kids battle-scars, on the inside cringing every time a new one was uncovered.

He’d not expected the house to be so quiet, the only slip of light he could find anywhere coming from beneath the door of a previously unused study. His wife and daughters had dispersed already, searched for signs of live elsewhere in the house, or maybe already got ready for bed. Yet, he’d been captivated by the voices he heard, remembering all the times that he told his children how bad eavesdropping was.

“You know that Ava and Nida will want to be flower girls, right?”

He’d known that voice, her adjutant someone who’d worried him at first, simply knowing that not everybody was fooled by a pair of snow-blindness goggles. Had heard the voice of his daughter answering, laced with laughter.

“That’s what you got from this, Major? Wedding bells?!”

Laughter filled the room, not of one, but of two men. Philip Armstrong should have simply knocked and walked inside, instead he’d remained rooted to the spot.

“That’d be a bit quick, don’t you think? Give us some time!”

He’d not recognised the voice, had felt unsure all of a sudden. There was a man in his daughter’s life? Someone were her friends, and she was godmother to the Majors children, so he’d count him as such, were already joking about marriage? She’d never mentioned anybody on the phone, never wrote about someone in the sparse letters. And then had come the exchange that had made his heart ache.

Miles had spoken first.

“Yeah, like ten years haven’t been time enough!”

To which there’d been a quick reply by the other man in the room.

“Twelve years Miles. You need to practise counting!”

He’d knocked then, had walked into the study, looking upon the trio in the room. Had simply greeted his daughter, had put up a front. Nodded at Major Miles and examined the third man, remembering that he’d seen him on photographs. Had withheld his judgement until his daughter was about to board the train northbound. Had looked up on the men, taken into consideration what his daughter had said to him about the matter. And yet he’d told her that he wasn’t a befitting husband for her. That the disparity in social-class was too great. Let her board the train without his blessing.

And when his next letter to her went unanswered, he started to understand that the offense he’d taken, the decision he’d made because of this, led to his daughter severing the last of ties.

After three full years of nothing, though she still met up with her siblings regularly, he’d finally swallowed his pride and bought a train-ticket. He was aware that the relationship with Drachma was bad at the moment, that the ceasefire had been broken after the drachman government fell victim to a coup, leading to a civil war breaking out. She had to be neck-deep in work, adding to the fact that she wouldn’t be pleased to see him at all.

And sitting in the train, a communications officer riding on the train had come up to him, informing him of an urgent call. He’d followed the man, thinking about the things he’d say to his eldest as soon as he saw her, how sorry he was for his misjudgement. She was still in a relationship with Mr. Buccaneer, the man having retired after the promised day, due to medical reasons. They had a flat in North City, which he had the address too. And they weren’t married to this day, from what he heard, because no one was willing to officiate the wedding. And even if someone came forth, irregularities with the needed papers occurring. So many seemingly tried without his knowledge, to honour his foolish will.

He’d picked up the receiver, absentmindedly, wondering how he could ever make it up to her. Just to learn that General Olivier Mira Armstrong had been abducted by a group of Drachman’s.

They’d only found the sheath of her sword, alongside blood and the corpses of four brave Briggs-men, having fought to their death. Out in a wide plain of snow she’d assessed a possible route the Drachmans had taken for their latest assault, a standard operation. It had been a trap she’d fallen unknowingly into.

There’d been no message as of the time he’d been in the train, nobody knew what was going on. He’d stormed into North City Headquarters upon arriving, had tried to set an immediate rescue-mission in motion. He’d been denied by General Dornier. Had even been barred from traveling up to the Fort, not even let forth when pulling the retired-influential-General card.

Two days later he learned from a Communication Officer at Briggs that additional troops had been send to the Fort, for the sole purpose to keep the Bears inside of it and not have them start a search on their own. Which he’d thought to be a bad idea, the chances of finding her the highest in the direct aftermath. Not to mention that his daughter had trained those men superbly. If there was somebody who could find her, track her position in these conditions, it would be the Bears of Briggs.

Yet, he stayed in North City, booked himself a hotel-room and tried to get his hands on as much information as possible. This was Olivier, there was a decent chance that she’d be seen walking towards the Wall suddenly, blood on her uniform and a scowl on her face. He knew what she could do, had, though still angered at her sudden departure back then, heard the raving reviews she got after the first combat sessions in basic training. Who would’ve known that ballet, dance lessons and swordsmanship, paired with a good portion of wilfulness and a fast-rising ire, were the ingredients for a special forces soldier? Hadn’t gotten many information’s on what she did after basic, simply because everything was classified until she got relocated to Briggs. She only shown up at home sometimes, mostly for her sibling’s birthdays, a new scar etched into her skin every time.

He’d never been someone to staunchly defend the political or arranged marriage. But in the past three years he’d realised, how often he’d pushed the topic on her, despite that. How he’d seconded his wife when she talked to their daughter about a “good looking fellow”. He hadn’t wanted her married for his personal gain, but had hoped that she’d maybe stay off of the battlefield then. That she’d come home on her own two feet and not in a casket.

And after a week of Olivier missing, a packet was delivered to the Fort. Strapped to the back of a dog, the kind used for protecting military premises in Drachma. His daughter would’ve scoffed at their cowardliness. He managed to shoulder his way into the meeting following the parcel, got to see the contents when it was brought to North City. Mr. Buccaneer had been there too, something he’d only partially acknowledged at the time and now regretted more with every passing week.

Her sword had been in the box, carefully wrapped in oilcloth. And it was easy to see why too, the whole blade covered in blood, a braid of blond hair wound around the hilt. Mr. Buccaneer had been the first to speak and what had rolled off his tongue had been an expletive.

A sentiment he’d undoubtedly shared.

It was apparently a drachman tradition older than time, older than civility Mr. Buccaneer had added with disdain. When you caught a member of the opposing country, or region, or family, really, you declared war through sending back their weapon. And it was also tradition to hurt the person with their own weapon before sending it. When it was a blade, you cut the person until her or she passed out, or begged for mercy. And he was more than just sure that his daughter did not beg for anything. The cut hair, Buccaneer had explained that it could also be a personal item or something else related to the person, signified who they had in their grasps. It also meant that she would be the bargaining ship in future negotiations.

They knew what they were up against and Mr. Buccaneer had pressed for a quick rescue mission. Everyone who’d served more than a few months at the Wall knew what a drachman prison cell did to a person. Torture, physical and psychological, was always order of the day. For a short moment, he’d thought that maybe he’d done well to get to know the man. He spoke with urgency, but not throwing away his level-head. And he’d been as keen to get Olivier back as he was.

They’d both been shut down. No rescue-mission was staged, no plans hatched. For well over a year. The few spies still scurrying through Drachma brought information of her having apparently tried to escape from the prison she was currently in, which led to her being moved closer to the border again. Half a year ago the last of her had been seen, while being moved between two trucks. A list with conditions for her release had been sent, of course none of them answered. Negotiating was branded as out of the question by Central Command and Philip Armstrong understood, that Olivier wouldn’t have wanted to be released like that, too.

Not to mention that his daughter firmly believed that she wasn’t worth rescuing, if she wasn’t strong enough to do so by herself.

And yet, Mr. Buccaneers appeal had been heartfelt, urgent and honest. He’d addressed the lack of action up until now, Drachma having withdrawn all of their constantly attacking forces as soon as they had his daughter in their grasps. They continued sending conditions for her release, too. Mr. Buccaneer had seemingly worked very hard on a detailed plan of action and had been shut down way too quickly by the council. Full of anger he’d left, Brigadier General Mustang quick to follow him. He’d waved the man’s adjutant to him after the meeting, had asked her to please fetch Mr. Buccaneer for him. She’d nodded courtly and was on her way quickly, the women someone his daughter would enjoy working with, he was sure of that.

And true to her word, the door to his car was opened not five minutes later, Mr. Buccaneer sitting down next to him. The man had no reason to be nice to him, to be civil at all and yet he extended his hand, nodding courtly.

“Mr. Armstrong, what can I do for you?”

He sounded indeed wary, but there was a steeliness to his gaze that spoke of newfound resolve.

“Mr. Buccaneer, I’m happy to meet you at last. I think we have a lot to talk about.”

The man didn’t even flinch at his way too polite and also inconsiderate words, instead speaking evenly.

“I hope this is about getting Olivier out of Drachma, because I’ve got little time for anything else at the moment.”

He raised his eyebrows a little, not surprised that they were on the same page, but more with the fact that they were in the very same row, also.

“I see, Mr. Buccaneer, that we got the same thing on our mind.”

The man did not smile. The situation was too dire for that. But his gaze spoke of a plan already forming.

He understood rather suddenly, what his daughter saw in him.

* * *

Seven people passed into Drachma at the crack of dawn, all at different points of the border.

The Walls Doc, Patricia to those she considered her friends, had been transferred to North City hospital in the past year. She hadn’t been happy about that, the move one that wouldn’t have been possible if the General were there. As soon as Buccaneer approached her, she’d readied her letter of resignation. She’d pushed for quick action in the direct wake of the Generals abduction, having seen what a drachman holding cell did to the human body after only a few days. Outgrown hair pulled up into a French-braid, she crossed the border silently, glad to have been trained in stealth.

Herman, a former 1st Lieutenant, who’d finally retired after the Promised Day, having muttered something about wanting to see his kids grow up. He’d been well over forty when he first set foot into the Wall and people had always marvelled how quick and effortlessly he had worked with the General. When several files of military personnel were leaked to the public a few years ago, his name had been the only one you could still read inside the Generals almost completely blacked early years of service. Once, after a few glasses of strong alcohol, she’d said that he’d saved her ass once. Trudging through thick snow, with the face of a man going to war, he knew that he was ready to do it again.

Sealyham passed through thick snow too, backpack heavier than those of the others, filled with more exploding material than the enemy would like. He’d talked the General out of fighting in the final confrontation on the promised day, had represented the loyalty the Briggs men felt in such a critical moment. He’d convinced her that she’d trained them so well that they could win without her. Was seemingly dead-set on proving that to her yet again. His letter of resignation he’d lain out on top of his bunk.

Karley had been the first man on the radio when the news had travelled home, was the centre-point of all conversations and discussion about the topic. And willing to share all that he knew, if he could help the first superior that had taken him and his tinkering, his ideas, seriously. Hand on the butt of his weapon, gaze set straight forward, he seemed ready to prove that he was just as good of a shot, as he was as an entertainer. He’d visited the nearest outpost because their radio wasn’t working properly and simply left after declaring that he needed to step out for a moment. His letter of resignation would be found in a few hours on the desk of the Walls momentary leader.

Sanders and Sanderson, the walls living in-joke, the men closer than brothers, though no two were more different. Sanders was loud and obnoxious, Sanderson quiet and tall, the walls best sharpshooters. Their relation had been found out by the General and Buccaneer, both stumbling into a closet already occupied. Secrecy, not just out of mutual pressure, but out of mutual understanding, had built an undying loyalty. When Buccaneer had after a long wait first asked people for help, they’d been by his side in an instant. They abseiled down the side of the wall and were out of sight after only a few minutes.

Buccaneer passed by a patrol post, after weeks of careful planning. Not twenty people were involved in the plan, Armstrong having taken care of the financial side of the matter. They had gear and weapons, medical supplies and explosives. He’d secured the people and planned the route, Armstrong would take care of everything if they made it back, lawyers, pensions, everything for the people that were willing to risk their lives for Olivier. The man manning the post thought him to be a bear and if he’d have it in him, he’d smile.

After two hours of walking they met up at the designated meeting point. They would’ve to avoid outpost and patrols, would have to wander for at least two days until they reached the outpost were the General was allegedly held. And when they found the place, they’d have to infiltrate and free her. Get her back home, whichever state she was in.

And when Buccaneer turned and looked at his comrades, he only saw people looking more than ready.

* * *

Two quick shots had the guards at the southern gate fall. He saw those of the north-eastern gate lying unmoving in the snow and mentally counted to ten, weapon trained on his gate.

His people were still lying flat, waited as he did. No one came and the ground troops moved into the building.

He moved down the side of his mountain, focused on catching up with Buccaneer and Herman. He was a good fighter on the ground too, leaving the higher position, the rear guard, to Sanders.

Reaching them after four minutes, walking past four more dead Drachmans, he was behind the two wide backs of his fellow soldiers. For a second he expected to see a silent hand-command from the General. Grabbing his pistol tighter, he did his job.

Another guard rounded a corner and was shot at short range. When a walkway branched to the side, a quick gaze informed his allies that he would clear it out.

Two guards were walking up and down a dead-end cellblock. He shot one quick, using the element of surprise. The other could scramble to cover and a short firefight ensued. He grabbed one of Sealyhams fog-grenades and threw it, dashing forward when he heard no shots. His knife made quick work of the man’s throat and he was behind cover again before the smoke cleared.

Glancing inside the cells, four occupied, three empty, one opened and empty, he spoke lowly and quickly in the language everybody at Briggs knew.

_“Do not fear! We will come and get you as soon as we can!”_

* * *

Herman had never been quick, was too heavy-set for that. But he was strong, could crush bones when he wanted to and did so just now, the drachman guard, a young man, with no time to understand before his life was over.

He spared no time for a remorseful glance, fought down the well-known feeling of guilt and walked on. Buccaneer in front of him was quicker, despite his bulk, the claws on his automail quick and deadly in the small hallway.

He heard people speaking drachman in the room before them, voice booming. A man, completely too loud and at least four others, speaking more hushed.

_“You looked better the last time, General!”_

The tone was mocking and he saw Buccaneers jaw clench.

_“A waste, if you ask me. Such a beauty you’ve been. If I had my way, I’d have send you back to the Capitol with a bastard!”_

Laughter, too loud, too upbeat. Forced. He felt Sanderson’s presence at his back again. Smelled, not for the first time today, the smell of Sealyhams fog-grenades.

_“Though I don’t think you could take it now. But what a way to go, huh?”_

The laughter renewed, was a good distraction even, and a signalling Buccaneer seemed to think along the same lines. A fog-grenade yet again made a good distraction, everybody laughing, inhaling and coughing in quick succession. They stormed, Herman silently glad that these Drachmans weren’t well prepared, badly trained.

He pulled up his rifle, shooting at short range as soon as he saw the unmistakable drachman coat. On the other end of the room he heard Karley shout out in pain, but then the renewed sound of his weapon.

Second team had caught up with them, probably heard them attack from the other side. The fog slowly cleared and the fighting commenced, only few enemies entering the fray now, the remaining forces they hadn’t cleared out yet, probably.

In the middle of the room lay his objective, the General, he the one designated to get her out of the building safely. She was just barely recognisable, thin, black and blue and a quick look had him understand why she’d not fled.

A small boy stood over her, bleeding too, maybe four or five years old. Protecting her, he understood after a second of thought. He went over to her, trusted his comrades to have his back. Did not look too closely at Buccaneer, who was pummelling the foul-mouthed man from before with his flesh-hand. Simply concentrated on pulling the thermo-blanket from the bottom of his backpack.

Threw it over the General, whose gaze was hazy. The boy wanted to say something but a pale, thin hand had him quieten down instantly. He lifted her up to him, firefighter-style too dangerous, pot-shots at her head still a possibility, but in front of his chest, locking his hands beneath her bum. Blanket wrapped around her, the boy grabbing an edge of it with determination in green eyes.

Herman started to move her out of the building, to their planned meeting-point, not looking back.

Thinking about how cutting off someone’s leg, seemed to be an effective way to keep people from running off.

* * *

Her job was rather simple in comparison, as she was indeed combat-trained, but in all honesty, would pose a liability in any fight. Went in with Karley and Sealyham through the garage, the former leading the way, the latter having peppered the ground facing the direction drachman back-up could come from with more explosives than she knew one could carry.

After securing the surrounding hallways, she at least able to have her comrades back with a rifle, they were elated to have secured three jeeps, fully equipped for this weather. Then they moved forward, clearing out more hallways, until they happened upon a slightly ajar double-door.

They waited, hearing someone talking loudly behind it. In Drachman of course, but she’d served at Briggs longer than most, understood the language more than just well, though she spoke it with a thick accent. She recognised the uniform, the description of the man and new that this had to be General Polikarpov. A man called unofficially the flayer, especially by those at the Wall. She’d treated wounds left by him before.

_“You can keep your mouth shut, I have to admit that. Very well you do that. But my patience is thin now!”_

He gave a hand-sign to someone else in the room, probably a guard. She expected to hear the General to make a pained sound, instead heard the wail of a child. Anger rose.

_“You don’t like it when we hurt the boy, do you!? Maybe want to speak now?”_

Another wail, louder than before. Patricia noticed herself shaking.

She could see neither of them, could at least be sure now, that in this very room the General was. Heard shuffling, unintelligible words in a voice, however raspy, she recognised.

The man’s booming voice, dripping with arrogance, even conveyed a slimy smile she couldn’t see.

_“You looked better the last time, General!”_

Karley was shuffling in front of her, while Polikarpov talked some more. That he’d counted four additional guards, plus the bloke. He’d storm, she and Sealyham were to stay in the corridor and bring up the rear. To keep fire high, so neither the General, nor the boy apparently in there, would be hurt. Then everything happened very fast.

The doors banged open not only on their side, put on the opposite one too. She took the few moments to remember where the enemies stood and to see Buccaneer throw a fog-grenade.

Through the fog she felled one of the guards, his stance practically burned into her eye. Then she turned, making sure that her comrades weren’t taken by surprise by a scant few Drachmans lured by the shouting. When Karley screamed, Sealyham patted her on the shoulder, telling her wordlessly that he’d keep an eye out.

He wasn’t injured badly, the bullet having missed anything vital, but it hurt nonetheless. Yet, he’d got rid of two more guards, while she applied a compressing dressing.

And when all noise died down, the General gone, carried away by Herman along with the boy, she saw what Buccaneer had done with Polikarpov. He was beyond help, that much was clear and she wondered how they’d identify him, when the inevitable back-up came. Sanderson spoke up first, looking green in the face with his eyes set on the red mess.

“There’s prisoners in the east wing.”

Buccaneer took command.

“Free them. Karley, Sealyham, make sure we are alone. The Doc and me will look if there are any files to get home that could help us. Escape on foot?”

She answered quickly.

“Equipped jeeps in the garage, we can use them. Pick up Herman and Sanders at the meeting points.”

Everybody nodded and filed out, the remaining resistance broken, prisoners loaded into jeeps along with several crates of files. They drove off, with the knowledge that Sealyhams traps would keep people from following them quickly. Jeep three picking up Sanders a few miles further. First jeep driven by Buccaneer, who stopped at the designated meeting-point, switched seats with Herman and followed her into the back.

And while the jeep rumbled through the snow, she did her job.

* * *

She had plenty of dreams, nightmare and fever-dreams alike, but this had to be the best one.

It had started with pain of course. Dreams now always did.

Polikarpov had hit her again and again, stepped on her right hand until her fingers all pointed in the wrong directions. She could barely see, barely breath and was freezing, warmth nothing but a distant memory. To every question she’d answered the same thing.

_“I do not know anything.”_

It was what everybody at Briggs learned to say, along with a neutral, disinterested tone of voice. Of course, you got hit harder for it. But it had proven healthier than constantly saying “Fuck you!”.

It was new that they hit the boy instead though. He screamed and she felt her heartstrings sing in pain, tried to brace herself on her elbows at least, tried to put a stop to it. He was so kind to her, even though she wasn’t sure anymore, if he was just a phantasy her subconsciousness came up with to help her cope. But dream or not, she had to try, flinching as they hit him again, screams growing louder.

Polikarpov drowned on some more, but then the whole situation started to feel unreal.

Smoke filled the room, gunfire and screams. She felt the boys skin against hers, how he leaned over her in a protecting gesture.

Saw someone step up to her, blinking away the blood, features known to her. With her left she kept the boy from lashing out, tried to convey that this was friend, not foe. It had been years since she’d seen Herman’s rugged face last. Felt nineteen again when he put a blanket over her and hoisted her up.

He’d scraped her out of the dirt at the Cretan border after a special mission gone awry. She’d been shot, could barely move and he’d made sure that she got home. Found it almost funny how she could remember this so well, but barely knew how long she was in enemies’ hands by now.

Over his shoulder she could see the wonderful image of Polikarpov getting his face smashed in by none other than Buccaneer. It was hard to see, her vision blurry, and yet she knew everything happening right now to be a dream. That he turned up was too good, too wonderful and couldn’t be real.

She’d taught him first and foremost, that those too weak needed to be left behind after all.

She’d expected her dream to end, but it apparently had something more in store for her.

Herman carried her out of the dreaded building, into the snowy landscape of rural Drachma. The boy was near them, touched her leg every now and then, looked at her with a confused smile. Closing her eyes, she wished for all of this to be real, just so he’d finally be free of all of this.

The world became hazier, breathing harder and she’d not thought it possible to feel colder than on the floor of her cell. Herman set her down softly, in what had to be a vehicle of some kind. She saw the Doc now too, felt the kindness in her words, but couldn’t comprehend them. The boy touched her arm again softly and his face swam in and out of her peripheral vision.

She felt pocking and pinching. Heard muttering and the cry of engines fighting with loads of snow. Smiled at the vividness of this dream, especially when Buccaneers face came into view also.

And even if it was only a dream, when she saw his face, felt his body retreat again, she grasped with her hand blindly. Taking hold of his sleeve, sodden with blood. Not wanting him to go away, not wanting this dream to end.

* * *

The alarm had blared and Brigadier General Dornier had ordered the alpha and beta squad to get ready in the walls belly. Jeeps were nearing the Wall, undoubtedly Drachman. The guards had spotted them, even more vigilant than usual, since the border-crossing of what was called the “bear-squad” among the Briggs veterans.

One outpost claimed to have been distracted by a wild bear, another that Communication Officer Karley had been abducted while stepping outside to relief himself. The patrol circling the perimeter had not met or seen traces of any of them, which had pissed Dornier off beyond belief. The man was aware of the Briggs men covering for the group, that they were approving of the happenings.

The three jeeps came to a stop a mile before the Fort, an unmistakable Sealyham stepping out of one of the vehicles. Waving his arms in a welcoming and questioning manner, to which the front-guard replied, after a quick exchange of looks with Dornier, equally silently that they’d not shoot. The jeeps put behind them the last leg of the journey, came to a halt in front of the Wall and people filed out.

He wasn’t the only one standing in the snow, elated to see the squad back again so soon and seemingly with good news. The Fort hadn’t been the same since the Generals abduction, especially as every action had been forbidden to them. And when it became apparent that Buccaneer had led a small squad over the border, all its members either already retired or having left a letter of resignation, an uproar had gone through the military ranks.

They were branded as traitors, of course. Drachma had no working government to speak of, was a country in the process of splintering. Those that had Armstrong were mostly made up of the former regime, with an inherent hatred for their decade-long foe. The military feared that this could be taken as a declaration of war officially, but to Henschel it had been clear that they only feared the disgrace of a private troop doing what they’d feared to try.

And succeeding apparently, because he saw the people climb out of the jeeps, all well, only Karley walking a bit stilted, but smiling nonetheless. People he’d never seen before filed out too, four men that looked and talked Drachman and seemingly had been held at the base they infiltrated too. None of them acted hostile in any way, but Henschel knew that they’d be brought in and questioned, just to make sure.

And when Patricia left through the back-door of one of the jeeps, letting it stand open, joined by Buccaneer not a second later, dread filled those of Briggs. This in the back was indeed General Armstrong, though he wasn’t prepared for what he was seeing.

She lay in the truck, alive by how carefully they covered her with blankets against the cold temperatures, but you wouldn’t judge that from her unmoving form. Maybe she was only asleep, maybe she was out cold, but before Buccaneer had a chance to hoist her up into his arms, General Dornier started to shout orders.

“HANDS UP AND WEAPONS ON THE FLOOR IMMIDEATLY!”

Only a handful of Dornier’s men stood as if the bear-squad was a threat, weapons poised. Him, and many others, stayed relaxed, knew that this was what the orders spoke of, that the squad had to be detained and brought to Central for questioning. Still, General Dornier used this whole deal as a chance to profile himself as Centrals lap-dog, the main command after four years of new leadership not as new as Fuhrer Grumman wanted to make them belief. The squad complied though, picking off their weapons from their bodies and throwing them away in front of them, afterwards raising their hands in the air.

Sealyham needed a full two minutes to get rid of everything that could explode.

“AND NOW FACE-FIRST INTO THE SNOW; HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

It was Karley that couldn’t keep his mouth shut, talking while getting down onto his knees carefully, ready to lie down. The rest of the squad following suit.

“Geez, no need to scream. We can hear you just fine!”

Dornier boiled visibly.

“DO NOT DARE AND TALK BACK TO YOUR SUPERIOUR!”

Henschel waited for the childish “or else” and could hardly hide a snicker. Not one of the Briggs Bears recognized General Dornier fully as their superior. He wasn’t one of them and didn’t try to be, instead relaying everything to Central and being their puppet. He lacked self-reflection and didn’t question anything, the only men loyal to him the few he brought with him. If he’d order them to shoot those in the snow right now, they would. Him.

It was Karley talking again, in a tone he’d never use if this were General Armstrong he was talking to.

“May we remind you, Sir, that we all have resigned?”

Dornier’s face turned red, the colour jarring with the blue of the uniform.

“YOUR LETTERS OF RESIGNATION HAVEN’T BEEN ACCEPTED! THOSE OF YOU THAT WERE PART OF THE MILITARY STILL FALL UNDER ITS LAW!”

And Dornier had not finished this sentence, when Patricia jumped out of the snow. It was a shame that she’d been relocated, the Fort’s medical needs now only met by Doc Neil. Who wasn’t bad at all, but overworked with the additional personal in the Fort, while also being the automail-mechanic.

Not one soldier flinched though and he saw surprise on scantly little faces. This was the Doc, Patricia, the only person who’d been brave enough to openly bud heads with General Armstrong and win. Lived to tell the tale, if he was honest.

“Seeing as the military laws apply in this situation then, I use the authority granted to me in medical emergencies to size partial command!”

She was pulling off a cheeky salute all the while too, Dornier at a loss for words, looking like a fish.

“General Armstrong is in critical condition and needs to be moved to the infirmary ASAP. Captain Henschel, if you’d be so kind? I’ll join you shortly, to have a proper handover take place with the current Doctor in charge of the station. The boy will follow the General and stay by her side and is not to be removed from there. Those that have been imprisoned alongside the General need a full medical check-up and are to be brought to the infirmary too.”

He moved, without thinking about it at all, and stepped up to the back of the jeep General Armstrong was in. Up close she looked horrible, face speaking of direct hits, black and blue with bruises. Her nose was obviously broken, her breathing shallow. The head on her hair, usually a proud mane, was dirty and uneven, like it had been badly chopped off. And when he lifted her in the cocoon of blankets, he noticed how light she was. How tightly he had to grip, just to notice her body under the cloth. She had to be starved and dehydrated and he could see the eyeballs roll behind their lids. This were fever-dreams.

And when he stepped back from the truck, ready to turn, he heard Dornier scream at him.

“CAPTAIN HENSCHEL, PUT THE WOMAN DOWN!”

The words barely registered, as he was still too caught up in the fact that he’d just found out what had seemed so off. Lifting her properly off the cargo area, he’d expected the feeling you get when carrying someone with your arm pressed against their knee-bend. The sensation of legs somewhat folding around your arm. The left leg did that indeed, but the right one didn’t follow. Looking down, the left leg dangling when he took a step, the lack of the right one became apparent to everybody watching him.

“This is a medical emergency, General, Sir! We have been trained to follow the Doctors orders, should such an event occur!”

He said it in a tone that brooked no contradiction, didn’t even look at the General, already moving towards the Forts doors. He heard the soft padding of feet next to him and registered the presence of the boy the Doc mentioned. Boots too big for him on his feet, chest wrapped in bandages, a blanket over his shoulders. He gripped the blanket-cocoon of General Armstrong with one hand and a fierce gaze he had to have learned from her.

Dornier was screaming for people to stop him, to finally act. But the bears of Briggs silently followed the Doc’s orders. She was indeed moving within the law’s in this situation, but it had been a gamble nonetheless. He caught out of the corner of his eyes, that the others, still lying in the snow as the General had told them to, were slowly handcuffed and escorted inside the Walls of Briggs.

Henschel put his eyes forwards, carried General Armstrong to the infirmary carefully. Laying her down, after Neil told him where. Stood guard at the door after Patricia walked inside too, grabbing his hands for a short moment, beaming at him. A silent thank you for something that bordered on insubordination.

And when the two Doctors had completed their handover, he himself fighting with the comprehension of the listed off injuries, he escorted her down to the cells.

Looked the seven people down there in the eyes, a grim smile playing along his lips.

* * *

He’d not been in on the plan.

Set foot into Ishval about six months after the promised day and hadn’t left it for more than visits ever since. About a year in, his wife and daughters had moved after him, and he’d been elated. Sherry was a medical Doctor, had worked in North Cities Public Hospital and her expertise had been a win for the developing region. She spoke Ishvalan fairly well, as did their daughters. They had fit right in.

Of course, he’d kept his ears towards the north. Buccaneer and the General had visited as often as they could, not only out of interest, but also because they missed their goddaughters and friends. He learned that Drachma had splintered, all the different regions and political directions locked in a standoff. Armstrong was sure that one of those parties would emerge victorious, Buccaneer leaned more towards Drachma becoming more than one country. And in the months before her abduction Armstrong seemed to be right, as the attacks from the royalists became ceaseless in all directions, not just the Walls.

Buccaneer had visited alone, Armstrong not able to make it because of the situation being too precarious. They’d joked afterwards, when the Fort hadn’t been attacked once in the two weeks of his stay, that if she’d have come they’d have attacked.

The next time he’d again come alone.

The news of her abduction travelled fast, became fodder for the public, which didn’t know how to feel on the matter. Briggs had a bad reputation after the promised day, however important Armstrong was to the running of the country, and while there’d been people calling for a rescue mission, it had been too few. Buccaneer had looked horrible, gaunt and stressed. Had formulated an appeal to the leadership, hoping to finally get a mission going.

Had once voiced his regret, of not simply following his first idea, to simply cross the border and get her out of there.

He’d left not soon after, still so very driven. His appeal had led to nothing and not a month later, Miles got the news that seven Briggs Bears, some long retired, the rest having left a letter of resignation, crossed into Drachma.

Not two hours after he’d gotten the news, delivered to him by his wife, barging into a meeting with Scar and other Ishvalan officials, he’d been arrested and questioned.

If he knew about that, if Mr. Buccaneer had ever mentioned anything? If there were plans he heard of, maybe even was in? If they had sources in Drachma the government didn’t know about? If Mr. Buccaneers heritage, son of a drachman woman, maybe had led to this not being a rescue-mission, but a turning of coat? If he wanted to trade secrets to the royalists, in exchange for General Armstrong’s life?

Miles had no answers. He’d spoken with Karley last a month ago, the only thing related to that they’d talked about the then open appeal. Sherry had talked to Patricia a week ago over the radio, but they’d only discussed a possible treatment for one of Sherry’s patients. Buccaneer’s last letter had come in a week before the questioning and while full of worry, there’d been nothing suspicious. They let him go soon enough, with it being apparent that he knew nothing.

Yet, he was worried. It was horrible that the General was imprisoned for so long and many were fearing for her wellbeing and life. But to rescue her in such a way was dangerous, all of them extensively trained or not. And not to forget that they were entering a country they were officially at war with. This could be counted as direct aggression and on the same lines seemed to think the government-body, promising a reward for every information that could led to catching the seven that had crossed the border.

Which didn’t seem to be necessary, because only three days after the news of their departure made the rounds, the news of their return did. They brought back the General and five Drachmans imprisoned at the same base, one of them a little boy. Henschel had radioed in in the middle of the night, telling him about the borderline-legal stunt Patricia had pulled, how badly injured the General was and everything else that had happened.

The rescuers, dubbed the “bear-squad” by the papers a day later, were brought to central for hearing and a trial. Patricia had relayed via Neil, that she’d appreciate it if Sherry could travel up North and take over General Armstrong’s treatment. She wanted someone capable overseeing everything, Henschel had told him. His wife had started packing fast and sat inside a train the next morning.

Not an hour after that, General Armstrong Senior had radioed in, wanting to speak directly with him. There was a military man needed for pulling all the available information together, so the coming hearings and the eventual trial could be done with complete transparency for those involved with the decision and the public. It wouldn’t be a posting with any power concerning rulings, but it enabled the person access to files, information and witnesses.

That he’d suggested his name, his knowledge of the drachman language and culture useful as well as his reputation as a man without bias.

There’d be accommodation for the kids, of course.

He was radioed by none other than Fuhrer Grumman another hour later, when the last news had barely sunken in. He was needed in the exact position Armstrong had told him off a mere hour before and was to travel to Central as soon as possible.

After arrangements with Scar and several others, he sat in a train to Central on the next day, his daughters opposite of him, playing quietly with their dolls.

Noticing finally that he’d been part of the plan all along.

* * *

She wished they’d stop staring at the stump.

They had plenty they could stare at besides after all. Her face had taken on a nice shade of yellow while she’d fevered, hadn’t even noticed that she’d been moved from Drachma to Briggs, from there to North Cities Military Hospital and from there to Central. The broken nose looked funny and though Sherry had informed her that they’d break it again and then set it soon, she thought it to be a good distraction. Her right hand, that had to be a distraction! Even she could barely stomach to look at it, the metal sticking out of her skin, twice at least for every single bone in her hand. It looked horrid, the stitches black and stark against her skin.

She’d gladly show people her other scars, her back with the thirteen deep ridges, the right side of her ribcage, were Polikarpov had flayed some of her skin off. Could tell them how much that had hurt, not only physically, because he’d stripped her Briggs-paw away from her, the first sign of truly belonging somewhere she’d ever got.

But everybody looked at her leg first, the blanket lying flat on the hospital bed, showing that there wasn’t a second one anymore. Saw the eyes travel up, from where her foot was supposed to lay, up to her ankle and along the length of her calve. Not finding a knee and not finding half of her thigh.

They’d stop at the stump and stare at it, probably mourning the loss of her right leg, as it apparently had held all the secrets the universe had to offer.

The pity she received now, rubbed her the wrong way. Not that she’d ever been fond of being pitied, but people acted like they knew her all of a sudden, like they understood the way she thought. How horrible it had to be for General Olivier Mira Armstrong, to never stand on her own two feet again. Yes of course she’d decide on automail, but it wouldn’t be the same now, would it?

It did not seem to cross people’s minds, that she was living with automail for more than a decade now, albeit not her own. She saw no shame in it, knew that it was a viable option that had drawbacks, but not too severe ones. Less than only having one leg, at least. Didn’t cross many minds, that she had other problems now.

After waking up in the middle of the night, to a room she didn’t recognize, had not only send the monitors she was attached to into overdrive. She’d panicked, the room almost pitch-black. Wondered what Polikarpov had now thought out, to drive her insane.

When after a few moments the light was turned on and the door opened, she’d realised he’d already managed to leave her on the brink.

She’d pulled the venous access out of her arm and had managed to free her right arm from the straps that were securing her hand in its place. Had been in the process of climbing out of the bed, not aware that a leg was missing in this moment, to be stopped by Gennadi’s hands. And of all people Sherry had stormed the room with half a dozen nurses in tow.

It had taken a while for her to understand that her last vivid dream, hadn’t been one.

The swirl of emotions had left her winded, physically and emotionally. The blood from the pulled access was incredibly red against her pale skin and only when Sherry manoeuvred her softly into a horizontal position again, she’d seen what had happened to her hand.

Sherry had explained of course and she’d calmed again, but the first question on her mind had been _him_.

She’d seen him smash Polikarpov’s face in, a sight, now that she knew that it really had happened, one she’d cherish forever. He’d come for her, had gotten her out of this hellhole and brought her back home.

Made the mental note to stick her middle finger up at anybody who dared to question their love.

When Sherry told her that he’d been imprisoned and would be tried for treason, she’d very nearly tried to leave her bed again. Gennadi was quickly at her bedside again, let himself be helped up by Sherry and sat as close to her less injured side as he seemingly had dared, in fear of hurting her. The brunette busied herself with replacing the ripped-out access and answered her questioning gaze soon enough.

Gennadi wasn’t an especially trusting boy and when the nurses and Sherry had entered, he’d initially hidden under her bed. That he’d let himself be touched by her was an incredible leap forward. Her question was answered soon enough.

“We’d gotten the information from Patricia, that he should be able to stay with you at all times. We even managed that through first your transport from the Fort to North City and later to Central. You’d woken up while fevering a few times and so nobody had dared. But we had to separate you two for the surgery on your hand, just after your fever had broken. While we were in the operating theatre, someone handed him over to child-services. I’m not sure how that happened, not yet, but I know that none of my nurses had done that.”

Gennadi looked like he’d known that they were talking about him, was very perceptive in this way. She’d understood that he had been able to read moods well during their imprisonment. Knew when to stay away from whom, to not be caught up in someone’s bad mood. Had stayed with her almost constantly, after they’d hacked off her leg.

“After getting you back to your rooms, mind you, we operated for nearly twelve hours, he was gone. People knew where he’d been brought to and when I drove with one of the security men to the place, we could hear him screaming before entering. Apparently had done this starting the moment he was brought away. One of the nurses knows drachman, you know? She’d explained him what would happen and that he couldn’t come with you, but that he could wait here. So, he knew it was wrong when he was brought away. They’d brought him to Central Command, wanted to hand him over from there. We found him screaming bloody murder at a few overwhelmed Lieutenants, throwing things their way. No one resisted when I went over to him, told him that we were bringing him back to you. Picked up your name, took my hand and came with me quite calmly then. We’re friends since that.”

Sherry smiled at Gennadi and he smiled back, but she’d not really felt like it. That they’d immediately tried to separate them when given the chance, made her anxious. More than once she’d entertained the thought of him being a projection of her mind, constructed by it to help her cope. He clearly wasn’t, which she was glad for, because he was such a good kid, the world would be a worse place without him. But it also filled her with dread, the things this boy had seen more than just horrible, the future so very unclear.

Before she could entertain even more gloomy thoughts, Sherry’s hand had softly touched her shoulder.

“No one’s going to take him away from now on. The staff is informed and ready to keep anybody not authorized from entering. I made it clear to the higher ups that he needs you for his mental well-being. And that I won’t hesitate to tell all those reporters hounding me, that the military was ready to let harm come to a child.”

She appreciated that Sherry had understood that she needed Gennadi just as much, without directly saying it.

And true to her words, there hadn’t been any additional disturbances. He slept in her room, one of the nurses having wheeled in a guest bed. When it was only the two of them, he’d jumped around on it gleefully. Sherry had declared her unfit to be questioned, which had led to the military hospital barring anyone from visiting her. Two weeks she spent conscious in her hospital room, before Sherry had declared her fit enough to receive those appointed with gathering every testimonial and information important for the trial. Two weeks of no news, no information’s and no newspapers. She got updates on neither of her rescuers, friends, family or Buccaneer. All in the name of securing an “unbiased testimonial”.

And when the five people, three men and two women, entered her room, she could hardly contain her anger. Eight eyes were trained on her stump, staring at it like you’d at an elephant in a zoo.

Her salvation was Colonel Miles, and god had she missed seeing his mug, coughing discreetly.

She felt the flicker of a smile pulling on her lips, searched the room to find that Gennadi must have hidden under the bed again and watched as four blushing and one trying not to beam military officer, pulled up chairs and sat down.

“General Armstrong, do you feel fit to be questioned?”

“If your companions would be able to pull their eyes away from my missing leg, then yes.”

Masking his laugh with a cough, she felt the missing eight eyes snap up to hers.

Desperately trying to keep them trained on her face.

* * *

Miles had questioned Gennadi, in this quiet and kind way he had.

It had shown that he had kids of his own, new how to word questions, so the boy could properly understand what he was asked. The people with him seemed to know no drachman, except for one young woman. She stood behind the Colonel, wrote down the answers of the boy too, and she knew that they’d compare their notes, to hand over a proper translation. The other three stood around somewhat useless, still staring at the stump out of the corner of their eyes. She silently wished that Sherry would have left her something to throw at them.

And when they’d finally left, after many exhausting hours filled with relieving memories she at the moment just wanted to bury, Miles had hung back. Just for a minute, because he knew that the others would wait for him. Barely long enough to offer her a few choice sentences, with a smile as exhausted as hers.

“I can’t make it possible for him to visit you, but as of tomorrow you’ll be free to receive news and visitors. We’ll keep you as informed as humanly possible and believe me when I say, that there’s a lot of people doing their best to resolve this matter as best as possible.”

She nodded at him, send him on his way with a tired smile.

* * *

At night, it was harder to pretend.

She lay on her bed, Gennadi lying by her side, stomach rolling. Getting used to normal food again was a pain, though even the bland diet tasted heavenly compared to the slob she’d gotten. But aching was normal at the moment, would remain to be for a few more weeks according to Sherry. Not to mention that she felt full after two bites only, which was a shame when you’d gone hungry for more than a year.

He was quite content though, not knowing much apart from the leftovers of the guards and as military rations everywhere were horrible, he ate even an apple with utmost glee. But he still lay with her when night fell, seemed to take comfort from her one-armed embrace.

She could admit to herself to be a little bit afraid of that. There were few people that she could comfort, as it had never been her goal. Was good with her siblings, her goddaughters and Buccaneer. Would have never expected that a small boy would take to her so much, especially given the circumstances.

They had a nightlight on and not because Gennadi needed one.

They’d had this nifty little cell, were it was pitch-black. Would lock you in until you lost track of time and if you’d pissed them off especially good, they’d lock you in there until you lost track of your self.

She’d sat in it more often that she’d have liked, had noticed when the room had been dark the first night after the first wake day in this hospital, sleep not coming, how the breath left her lungs. How cold sweat had started to coat her skin and fingers shook.

The sound of the monitors escalating in pitch within a few seconds, Sherry rushing in.

The door was now slightly ajar at all times, a night-light added the day after.

Even by day it freaked her out when all doors were closed, felt like she’d exchanged one cell for another. It was brighter, cleaner and warmer here, the people were nicer, but she was still unable to walk anywhere by herself. Would remain unable to for a long time, the wheelchair nothing she wanted to sit in, crutches not in the realm of possibility at the moment. The open door at the same time alleviated some of the fears she associated with closed doors know, but also reminded her of the taunts she had to endure.

Cell-door open, leg missing and bleeding, asking her why she didn’t flee.

The talk with Miles and his team had unearthed not only the fears now ingrained into her being, the kind she was faced with every day, but also the more abstract ones. Had diminished her ability to live in the moment for now, brining memories to the forefront.

How they’d forced her to her knees with a well-aimed kick, head still hurting from a hefty hit, bullet still smarting where it had lodged into her shoulder. They’d waved her own sword about in front of her face, throwing words meant to taunt at her. She’d remained calm, had steeled herself for what was to come and not screamed when her own sword bit into her back the first time. Had lost count before she’d let a sound escape, lost consciousness soon afterwards.

They’d waited for her to come to her senses again, before they’d cut off her hair with great commotion. Probably had tried to hurt her vanity, which was an empty effort. Held the braid in front of her face, wound it around the hilt of her sword and when she’d seen that, the last puzzle-piece she needed to fully understand her current predicament, she’d grinned at them.

The feral one, that had her bears run in fear.

She remembered the impact of a fist and then nothing for a while.

The five had written down what she said, augmented her testimonial of the events with questions meant for clearing everything up to those who’d have to pass a sentence building on it.

“What did you understand about your imprisonment?”

“They’d not kill me, whatever I or anybody else did. As soon as they sent this sword to you, they’d sworn on blood that I was either their prisoner for all times, or would be handed back in an agreement. I’d not have to fear death or abandonment. These are the laws that go alongside this tradition.”

She’d denied herself to add that they should include torture and mutilation to the list, but as they’d just stopped staring, she’d thought it to be bad timing.

A nurse had offered to cut her hair the first week she’d been awake. Knew that it was uneven and grubby, not looking exactly flattering, but had refused. The thought of someone nearing her with a sharp object was unbearable at the moment, so much that Sherry had decreed within the team, that even small surgeries had to be done under full narcosis.

They had a sheet of paper on which they counted the scars left by knifes pressed to her skin, in the name of an exact medical record.

Gennadi moved a little, got more comfy against her bony frame and she wondered why they didn’t rattle when they moved.

He was skin and bones too, had to be four or five years old, though she couldn’t be sure. The only things that were, the green of his eyes and the dark brown colour of his hair. He’d a guarded gaze, determination or warmth only to be seen in the right moments, with the right audience. His hair was shorn short, in the typical prevention of lice practiced in drachman bases. She’d spent many hours wondering what he would look like after a few hours of playtime outside and steady meals. He was pallid and sinewy, frame small, but had an angular face.

When Miles had asked him, after a bit of coaxing to get him out of his usual hiding space, about what had happened. He hadn’t been upset by the carefully worded questions, something none of the grown-ups in the room had an easy time stomaching. The realization for the blue-coated team, that he was describing his reality up until three weeks ago, was one that hit you in the gut. As had his answer to the last question he’d been asked:

_“If you could choose where you wanted to live, any place you can think of, where would that be?”_

_“I’d stay with Olive.”_

Her name wasn’t one that rolled easily from a kid’s tongue. The nickname something they’d agreed on after he’d sat with her for the third time. Had smiled at her, had tried to practice the weird mix of vowels and vocals.

And when he said it, without even a glimpse of hesitation, she’d felt like someone kneed her in the gut. Had been taken by surprise, because he could’ve said a great many things, had met so many people that were nice to him. And yet he’d said her name.

It had felt oddly similar to the first time Buccaneer had told her that he loved her.

She tried to hug him a little tighter to her, as well as you could with one arm and wondered if there even was a proper chance of fulfilling his wish.

In this state, she could barely care for him, not like you were ought to care for a child of his age. Would remain unable to for quite some time. And he’d need special care, would probably need to see a psychiatrist, because even though she wished for this last few years to never catch up to him, they inevitably would. He’d need to go to school in a couple of years, would need rooms to stay in and most of all he’d need emotional support. Someone to play with, someone who taught him how to be a child.

It would be a lie to say that she was much of a mother, but she felt the want to at least try. For Gennadi.

Wanted to talk to _him_ so badly, that her heart physically hurt.

He’d know what to say, what to do and most of all she’d know that he was alright. Was one of the few people ready to oppose her in a discussion, would be honest with her. She’d always been aware of her own limitations and he’d been the first one to take her self-assessment seriously. It had been a part of why they were such a good team.

He’d apparently been able to talk Gennadi into having his wounds treated by Patricia on their way back to the Fort. And the boy had gotten his wounds cleaned and bandaged by her, a little unwillingly, but with no one needed to hold him still. Something he’d only let Sherry do again, after she’d told him that it was alright. That Sherry wouldn’t hurt him.

Had managed that in such a short time, to gain his trust, that she wanted him by her side more with every passing moment.

Tried to concentrate on something else, to distract herself from the feeling.

The right side of her ribcage was itching horribly.

It had been one of Polikarpov’s favourites past-times, to torture her when he was at the base. More delicately than her guards, hoping to gain information. He put thought into the techniques he used, planned what he wanted to do to her, the wounds he inflicted on her not always strictly physical. It was a horror she learned to dread, to fear even, would take daily beatings over it every time. She could live with pain, being a soldier pain was in the job description. But to be left in total darkness, to be starved, to be dehydrated to the point of hallucination, that was something different.

He'd obtained coats the colour of Briggs. Tore and bloodied them, told her that they’d come for her and had been torn to shreds. She’d spat on his face, told him that they wouldn’t, that if she was too weak to free herself, they’d rather let her rot in this cell.

Had asked Sherry as soon as she had a clear head, if there’d been a mission to rescue her besides the successful one. Had, while protesting the claim vocally, wondered if there maybe was truth in it. Had after many months of wondering, finally gotten the answer that no one had died in an attempt to save her.

That she had doubted that, gnawed at her even now.

They’d left her in a tiny cell for several days, too small to stand, too short to lay down in. Had broken some ribs in a beating just hours before, her first attempted escape having left three guards dead and a search party catching up with her only after more than an hour trudging through deep snow. She’d half-sat, half-stood in it for a long time, saw the frostbite spread on her right foot. Felt many ribs shift with every breath she drew, a constant burning pain accompanying that. Hadn’t been able to stand straight when they’d finally relocated her to her usual cell again.

Sherry had said that at least two of the ribs would have to be broken again and set properly, another would probably have to be either removed or strengthened with metal encasings, not unlike those you got when top-automail was installed.

On the hospital bed, she could pretend not to feel any of that.

It was soft, yielded when she pressed her back into the mattress. Gennadi was very careful to not touch any place that he knew would hurt her and it had made it easy to pretend that there wasn’t a plethora of surgeries coming up in the near future.

But only after waking up in Central Cities Military Hospital, hazy and panicked, she’d understood that the worst thing Polikarpov had wanted to use was Gennadi.

That he’d probably set him up for usage months ago.

He had been tasked with bringing her food. He’d been on the base since day one, but had always been chaperoned away by any guard nearby if he tried to talk to her. Had seemed to be part of the daily routines. Only after her second attempted escape, they’d let him come in contact with her. He brought her food and water, was to sit with her during many hours and was soon entering and leaving her cell by his own free will.

She’d seen through that only partially, had thought that they wanted to use him as a mole, to thwart further attempts at escape, rather than use him as a device to mentally break her. They started giving him less food, which led to her offering portions of hers to him, starving herself more in the process.

It had been perfidious, to utilize him like that. He was disposable to them, they wouldn’t mourn if she refused to interact with him, if he was to starve. But he had started to look worse with every day passing and she’d not been able to keep herself from at least trying to help.

She’d lied months before the promised day, to wane General Raven save in his assumptions. Had created the image he’d wanted her to portray and fooled him with it. Even most of her bears had laughed, had seen through it. Forgot a rather important fact:

In every good lie, there was a bit of truth.

He was only a child, innocent of the crimes happening here, the mere thought of harming him send shivers down her spine.

So, when he started to starve, she fed him. When he got too lonely, they talked. They kept each other warm and when her third attempt at escape rolled around, he’d hidden where she told him to. Had waited for her until a guard had to have pulled him out of the pipe he was hiding in. Watched as they mutilated her in the courtyard, screams in tune with her own.

And when they’d even taken the privilege of light away from her, left her in darkness for days on end, he was the only thing keeping her sane. Stayed with her, though they’d given him the choice to just attend his regular duties again.

When he’d refused, choose her, Polikarpov had declared the time to have come. And she’d finally understood then, that they’d not wanted him to rat her out, to have her slip when near him. That they’d risen him as you would a lamb for slaughter, to be a device to torture her more, to finally have the tendons of her sanity snap.

And when they first laid hand on him, the day she was finally rescued, they almost did.

Tightened when they hit him first, stretched almost unbearably when they hit him the second time.

The third never came, thanks to her saviours. Keeping him from further harm, keeping at least her sanity intact, however damaged it was. Made sure that they stayed together, after catching only a glimpse of them.

To think that they’d been imprisoned for saving lives, was something she couldn’t understand.

The five blue-coats had turned very silent near the end of her tale, maybe struck with how quick you could go over a whole year of imprisonment. It struck her too, that this time fit into one day, making it feel so meaningless and incredibly powerful at the same time.

Maybe they were all aware now too, that putting those on trial that saved her, instead of those that imprisoned her, was harebrained.

Looking at the stars the night-light had appear on the ceiling, colourful and really rather pretty, she understood that he may wanted to stay with her, but that she wanted that just as much, if not a little more. It would be hard, for both of them, all three, because there was no chance in hell she’d do any of that without _him_.

Sighing she looked at Gennadi, sleeping so very peacefully. Wondering what the future would bring, of foes to fight, their faces still in the shadows.

She’d have to make use of everything her arsenal had to offer.

* * *

The papers were detailed, drachman orderliness something that finally played into his hands.

They’d made note of every wound on every prisoner. Of everything seen by those having watch, may it be animals, suspicious snow banks or escaping detainees. Of every single person entering and leaving the base, whatever their state was at any given time.

It was a piece of cake to identify everybody that was freed and when the drachman provisional government, a full two weeks old at the time, send a diplomat over the border for an official ceasefire, he’d met their want for information with facts.

Miles knew his task to be a great responsibility, checked every information he got with great care and knew that his reports would play a big part in the upcoming trial.

The amestrian government condemned the action taken by the “bear-squad”, calling it an unauthorized act committed by extremists. Arrested them on claims of treason and in several cases of working against direct orders.

It was a move to prevent war with Drachma, a desperate try not to be seen as an aggressor by their neighbouring countries. Within a few short days, papers and radio stations flooded the citizens of Amestris with the news that, while General Armstrong and the others rescued were safe and the government very happy about it, the people who’d freed them were traitors.

When the diplomat from Drachma arrived at Central Command, his first action was to thank Fuhrer Grumman for the death of General Polikarpov.

Without the man, the royalist resistance had crumbled. The splintering Nation had welded itself together promptly, forming a republic of councils. The details were in no way worked out yet, not even close to, but there was a good chance that Drachma in its past form would never exist again.

The people in attendance had been stolen of their thunder in the direct wake of that statement. With the help of the media they’d created a hype concerning the coming trials, while being a necessity something that would’ve gone over a lot quieter and calm without it. And when those news made the rounds, that Drachma was thankful for what had happened, not going to wage war, the public opinion wasn’t easily swayed. Neither the opinion of many higher ups, who thought that such insubordination had to be punished accordingly and severely, to keep people from simply taking justice into their own hands.

To put it simple, Briggs wasn’t very popular.

Only a few days after the promised day, it had become clear to the soldiers of the north, that a certain Colonel had played them. They were put into the same place of mind as the corrupt High Command by the public, people not even remotely knowing what really had happened. Briggs men had been seen fighting Fuhrer Bradley, who was a heroic figure in the public’s eye to this day. Armstrong was, while an integral part of the government, seen as power-hungry and not worthy of trust.

She’d been part of the Fuhrers cabinet before his fall, the cabinet that had been vilified as corrupt and planning a coup. Was the only member of said cabinet to live and not be put to trial. Outrage followed, the excuse given to the public for that too thin.

There was little she could do about it without blowing their cover, so she’d lived with it. Every Briggs men and women had. And when she’d been abducted, there hadn’t been a huge public outcry for a rescue mission.

There wasn’t an outcry now, when people linked to the fall of Fuhrer Bradley, were put to trial for treason. The possible punishment: Death by execution.

Miles had gathered testimonials, had spent almost a whole day with his temporary staff, listening to General Armstrong recounting her imprisonment. Had written his report shortly after, but not before trying to calm down, before receiving a hug from his daughters.

Had questioned the boy, Gennadi, the other prisoners, the seven that had rescued them. Those stationed at Briggs during the time they crossed the border and those that had been there when they’d returned.

Four weeks of hard work.

With his staff, he’d come to the conclusion, that, while of course illegal, the action taken by the “bear-squad”, had been right. A few days later and additional lives could’ve been lost. Would General Polikarpov still be alive, the civil war inside of Drachma probably wouldn’t be resolved by now and even if, it wouldn’t certainly haven’t gone so favourable for Amestris.

The only problem was that no one wanted their opinion. So, they organized the facts they’d found, wrote down their conclusions and got ready to remain in the Capital during the trials, as to be ready to give out needed information. If there was further testimonial needed, they’d gather it. If an event had to be explained based on local culture, they would explain.

And as he was head of the team, his attendance was required in military meetings concerning the matter.

“The consequences could already be felt! Upon the traitors return, a wave of insubordination took place at Fort Briggs! My men took orders from a Doctor working at a hospital!”

Miles kept his mouth shut, laughing inwardly at the pure gal of General Dornier, calling the Bears of Briggs “his men”.

“General, I do understand that this was an upsetting situation, but haven’t we already concluded that this was completely right in the realm of military law?”

Mustang worked hard in these meetings, he’d have to give him that. Wanted a peaceful solution, light punishments for those involved. But Miles was wary of the man, while knowing that General Armstrong had been aware of the drawback his plan had, not especially pleased with the way the now fellow General had remained so calm when another military institution had been widely panned.

Wondered if he was planning something now, hoped to gain something from the situation.

“Don’t get cocky with me Mustang, you may tolerate insubordination, but I work at a post were war is a very real possibility!”

Glad for his glasses, hiding the laughter dancing in his eyes, Miles watched Fuhrer Grumman sigh. The man had an agenda too, though keeping silent about it, but it led him to not taking any position openly.

A dangerous situation all things considered, because when it came to the possible execution of soldiers that had been an integral part in saving the country barely four years back, a clear stance he’d have expected.

“Gentleman, we have to view the incident at Briggs as an isolated incident in the upcoming trials. It does not concern the claim of treason and as it wasn’t against military law, though yes General Dornier, it bordered on insubordination, it simply wasn’t. A good lawyer will chalk it up to the men being in an emotionally stressful situation and handling it in a way that insured as little fighting as possible.”

Which was a statement made by the Fuhrer, that was neither here nor there.

The trials had already begun, Buccaneer and the others called to court and questioned about their motivations and planning. There was no evidence of any additional people having been involved in the plan, nothing to make one think that it took more than seven people to infiltrate a drachman base and overrun it.

Yet, Miles was sure that there were more, however well the testimonies added up.

He’d been a part unknowingly, as had been his wife, who oversaw General Armstrong’s treatment. He also was sure that General Armstrong Senior was in on it all, as well as several other people serving around Briggs. Too many outposts had seen nothing, too many people act way too surprised.

And at the same time there’d been a handful of people who’d seemed to genuinely no nothing. To him the best indicator for a well-thought-out plan there could be.

After a bit more squabbling between Generals Mustang and Dornier, the meeting was almost at its end, when an out of breath Lieutenant entered the room.

“Fuhrer Grumman, Sir, please excuse this intrusion! There are urgent news that you need to hear!”

* * *

The bullet bit into her skin, had her legs spasming.

She fell face first into the snow, tried to scramble up again but couldn’t. Tried in vain to get on her feet again and again, slipping on the snow under her bare feet.

Felt the cold climb up to her, trying to freeze her ability to run. Managed two metres just to fall again, the butt of a weapon pushing onto her shoulder blade, seemingly pressing the bullet deeper into her skin.

Whoever it was took her by the ankle, pulling her back to base.

She fought, trashed, tried to grab a hold of anything and everything she could, but there was little more than snow and ice, cutting up her palms.

Did not know how long they left her lying in the yard before the base, were usually the jeeps stood, were the hole was dug, when another person was about to be executed.

Shivered violently after a few minutes, kept down by a heavy pair of boots, torn pants and shirt not keeping the cold at bay, a burning feeling spreading where her skin touched the snow. Heard them search, shout to each other. Heard the yelp of the boy when they found him.

Heard as they shuffled the others out, ordered them to stand around her, so that they could watch.

When someone grabbed her hair, held her head up, she was met with the ghastly faces of the others. Horror on their faces, fear. Whatever was to come, whatever punishment she would receive, they wanted all to know.

They let her head fall again and she could do little to brace herself. Hit the frozen ground hard, pain blossoming. Heard the voice of the grey-bearded guard, names something they didn’t offer their prisoners. She’d learned here, that when your enemy knew your name, retaliation was far too easy.

“Watch closely! This is what you get for trying to escape!”

Another one of the guards spoke up, babyface judging by the voice, if the ringing in her ears did not distort it too much.

“Aye, remember that General Polikarpov needs her alive, do you?”

Laughter, the kind that came before they’d do something more horrid than usual.

They laughed like this before they’d broken her nose. Before they’d broken her ribs. Before Polikarpov flayed the sole off her right foot, cutting away the frostbitten toes.

“Oh, she’ll live. But it’s getting really bothersome to search her in this weather.”

Her head was lifted up again, came face to face with a leering grin.

“We asked you to understand, didn’t we? Now we gotta show you the hard way!”

She caught eye of the axe, tried to find Gennadi, tried to see where they’d taken him. Did not have to search for long, when they pressed her head to the ground, had her face him.

Felt when another boot was added to her body, standing on the ankle of her right foot, pressing it down with a crunching noise and unbelievable pain.

_“You know, sometimes you gotta do, what you gotta do!”_

She heard the grunt of a man getting ready to chop wood a thousand times over. The sound of the axe singing through the air, ready to split a log in half.

Screamed when it hit her flesh instead.

Woke up screaming still.

* * *

“Quite a selfish move you pulled there.”

Two months after her return, she looked like a resemblance of herself again. He’d only gotten to see a few pictures made during the medical documentation, only had an idea of what she’d looked like when she came in. But the tales of the others had been enough to paint him a pretty good picture.

Her room was heavily guarded and she’d been awarded the privilege to deny most visitors if she wanted to. Had denied him for quite some time now.

“To deny you for so long? I thought you only want to look at pretty women.”

Her family was around her almost at all times, as was the boy, his fate still undecided. He’d watched her mother led him out of the room, to give them some privacy. Had taken his time to look around it, the traces of a child living here so very clear. Colouring book and pencils on the table, colourful bedsheets. A stuffed cat on the floor, played with only minutes ago.

“Don’t act coy. You know what I mean.”

He’d not expected her to give in easily, to admit that she had her hand in all of that, but when the news had dropped about four weeks ago, everything had been thrown in turmoil.

A rogue alchemist had tried to kill people with a ritual, that was the easiest the story suddenly floated through the masses. Fuhrer Bradley had been in on it, his wife only lying on the radio to protect their son. North and East had joined forces, several other people in on the plan to rescue the masses.

He and his team had answered with silence when questions were asked, but enough key-elements of the story had fit, enough people involved verified it.

“Tell me Roy, how could I do anything, trapped in here?”

And only a day later, the trial commencing, there’d been a public outcry. Suddenly heroes of a secret war were tried, not a bunch of treasonous soldiers. The odds were suddenly in their favour.

“Please, you had the longest reach of anybody I knew and that while being holed up in that Fort of yours, as far away from civilization as humanly possible. A hospital room with plenty of personal is a joke compared to that.”

He had a hard time telling her, that the attention to this, his supposed heroism, irked him.

“Compared to what?”

And she met him at every turn, now that he confronted her about it.

“You leaked this information, made the public aware of what happened during the promised day!”

He’d not wanted her to stay imprisoned, hadn’t liked her being abducted at all, but to work against orders, would’ve been a bad move. He’d tried to sway the Generals when Buccaneer had made an appeal, to say yes to a small rescue-team. Had known that it would almost certainly fail, the chance for Amestris to finally be seen as a peaceful country too great.

“What I read about in the newspapers, wasn’t exactly what had happened, now was it?”

And when Armstrong Senior had started not to meddle with the military anymore, but those that desperately wanted his daughter back too, Roy had known that little could stop them now.

“Altered the information, made it fit into your little scheme!”

They’d brought her back in a show of tactical excellency, had formulated a plan beforehand, so broad that it was hard to comprehend.

“Which would be?”

Her acting like she knew nothing, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, infuriated him to a degree.

“To keep them from shooting him of course! All signs point to execution, the public is almost rooting for it and suddenly the news drop that those men and woman are heroes? You want me to believe that this was a coincidence?”

They’d come to an agreement before the promised day, she’d known that her reputation could suffer. The move she pulled was dangerous for all involved in the promised day.

“Not everybody is as keen on getting shot as you are, Roy-boy.”

Her gaze was practically burrowing into him, blue eyes pinning him down.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He felt cornered all of a sudden. They’d known each other for a long time, knew how to play the other like a fiddle. And he just noticed that she wasn’t just playing anymore.

“Acting coy? Your plan to become Fuhrer? To try those that took part in the Ishvalan genocide?”

She struck a nerve, more violent than a jackhammer.

“You have no idea what I have done! No idea how it is to live with such a guilt!”

He hissed, angry. Wondered how she’d made this curve, how she’d know what was going on in his mind.

“Don’t I?! Do I have not killed? Just because I did it in the snow while you did it in the sand, the sin is suddenly washed away? Don’t fool yourself!”

Her laugh was hollow, sarcastic and he tried to calm himself. Tried to understand where she was coming from.

“So, you are against such a trial?”

Watched her formulate an answer carefully, got that she wasn’t just acting on a whim here, wasn’t just as insufferable as possible.

“I’m against you, wanting to be killed in the name of someone else! Against you wanting to be put on trial and to only desperately wish for your live to be ended in the name of revenge, in the name of the survivors of Ishval, when you’ve not even bothered to ask them if they want you to be killed in their name!”

He screamed before he thought, that she’d talk to him about such matters outrageous enough.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT REVENGE?”

He knew it to be the wrong thing before he was done saying it, pain flickering in her eyes.

“TOO MUCH!”

Silence fell for a while, those decoyed by the screaming dispersing again, but the tension still hanging in the air.

“There were faces among those of my captors I recognised! Soldiers have fathers and mothers Roy, just as much as victims often have children, left behind. What good will it do them, if they learn that you ordered yourself to be shot in their name? Ordered for many to be shot in their name? What will it do besides offering them the empty feeling of revenge?”

Buccaneer had destroyed the man that had brought her many of these wounds, the others had killed her jailors, people that had happily tortured her. She’d experienced true revenge first hand, while having been served the emptiness of getting it at the same moment as being freed. Understood that the feeling of those having suffered for what they’d done, did nothing to make you feel better about the state it left you in.

“Then what should I do? I did things that could never be forgiven, Olivier!”

He’d read the reports, not only hers but also those of the other prisoners. Knew that she’d never asked for forgiveness while imprisoned, while tortured. Had never pleaded and never begged. She’d given them the opportunity to let their anger out on her, to execute their revenge and still she was sitting here, while they were gone.

“It is not yours to decide if you can be forgiven! Leave that to those you have harmed, to those whose loved ones you have stolen away!”

She spoke with force and he saw regret in her eyes, unable to say for what. But he understood that only offering others to take revenge on you, did not help wounds to scar over.

“And then what? What if I can’t forgive myself?! To live with what you’ve done, what kind of punishment is that?!”

He knew her answer before she said it, finally understood what she was getting at.

“The worst of them all!”

In the minute-long silence that followed, he contemplated the meaning of her words.

There was nothing wrong with him wanting to be tried for what he’d done in Ishval. It was necessary even, extremely important to not only him, but people who’d one day look back and try to find their place as citizens of a nation, who’d done horrible things.

But he was not to dictate how a trial would end, could have expectations, but nothing else. He was accused and not accuser and it was simply not for him to decide, how others wanted to enact their revenge.

If they wanted to at all.

“They’ll proclaim the verdict tomorrow. For all seven.”

He did not know what would be decided, only that two sides had clashed for a long time over the question. But she’d tipped an important scale in her favour.

And when her mother entered the room again, running behind a little boy who’d seemingly missed her too much to wait for him to leave, he realised that she’d maybe tipped the scales for quite a lot of people.

* * *

They were the only people that got no news at all.

Buccaneer did not worry too much though, the thing he’d wanted to accomplish, done. She was save again, hurt but save and whatever happened, he knew that she’d be okay. That she was too much of a fighter to give up, would be walking in no time, wield her sword again and be who she was.

Miles had asked him to recount the events that had taken place, which he’d done swiftly and precisely, as all seven of them had practiced. Well over twenty people had been in on the plan, ten more not knowing anything but still a part of it. They would take the blame.

He walked into court that day, for the fourteenth day in a row now, standing tall.

Knew that the verdict would be passed today, as soon as the others joined him in the hallway. Media coverage seemed to be extreme, reporters often shouting questions at him when he walked past. Photographers stood, taking shaky pictures with cameras that did not work well with hectic people.

He remained calm.

Hadn’t when he’d killed Polikarpov, couldn’t. The things that man had said sent him into overdrive, a year too long, the screaming too much. Two months with the knowledge that she was safely back home again flew by, compared to the year without her. Days that were eternities before, he now blinked away.

And when he walked down the aisle of the court room, shackled like the others, he saw her.

Amongst a throng of family, shielding her from the others. Hair bright and shoulder-length, nose slightly bruised, a strip over it. Standing shakily on crutches, one pant-leg still empty, but apparently still hating wheelchairs with an unjustified passion. The boy from before not with her, the kid who’d watched over her when he couldn’t.

If they offered him a last wish, he’d use it thank him.

Through the tense atmosphere her eyes found his. Pools still as blue as ever, icy to those that didn’t know that freezing was a lot like burning up. And when her mouth showed the slightest of smiles, he tripped. Only a little, just because his concentration had left him for a second, but it was enough to change the mood.

People laughed and he felt a blush spread across his cheeks. Caught himself to the sound of several cameras going off at the same time.

And only after a few minutes the tension returned, when the judge proclaimed the verdict.

* * *

He’d sat his daughter down in the car, right in front of Central Command.

She’d let him in when he’d asked to visit her, had been the second person she let in after her mother. Had talked with her for hours, let her in on his plan and told her how much he loved her. How sorry he was for everything he’d done unto her.

There hadn’t been an answer. Not for months, not before the trial came to an end.

And when the shouting in the courtroom had finally become too much, he’d led her out to the car. They’d gotten past the reporters lingering undetected and when she’d sat down, the tears had started to fall.

He could understand it all. The past few months had been hard on her, almost unbearable, not only physically, but emotionally. One surgery had chased the other and that alone would have been hard enough on her without the trial.

Those that had saved his daughter were put in front of a judge, who’d decide if it had been the right thing to safe her live. The official notion was treason of course, traversing borders, almost starting a war, but it had felt utterly personal nonetheless.

He’d planned ahead of course, lawyers available when he needed them, the proper persons put into key-positions. That had been the deal: They’d save his daughter and he’d try his best to save them from harm in the aftermath. Not able to shake the feeling that they’d have saved her anyways.

His daughter crying was testament to that. Had put up with so much uncertainty, so much pain, that her walls were crumbling.

Took her in his arms quickly, wanting to help her as best as he could. Almost didn’t hear it when she whispered into his ear.

“I accept it.”

He did not know what she was talking about, did not understand at first and when he finally did, he hugged her even tighter.

Had judged love before seeing it, before taking the time to understand. And when he’d seen what it would do, when the man reminded him of what it was capable of, he’d apologized to her. For being stupid and judgemental. For meddling and intervening. For withholding the one thing from her she’d paid so much for to call hers.

The probability of her having a quiet day for the rest of her life was nearly non-existent. With the knowledge of the promised day out in the open, however edited, people would try to win her over, politically at last. With Gennadi by her side, whom she was more than ready to fight for. With Buccaneer tripping, back in the court-room, just because she smiled a little at him.

There was no way that the yellow press wouldn’t be all over them.

He let go of his daughter when he saw a mob of people nearing the car. Sat in front of her when the door opened, to shield her from view. And after the door was closed, the blackened windows offering a resemblance of privacy, he moved away between them.

Watching as Buccaneer engulfed his daughter in a tender hug.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite you to leave:
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